


Romantic Entanglements

by wyntereyez



Series: Talk to the Hand [5]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Crack, Crossdressing, F/M, Gender Issues, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntereyez/pseuds/wyntereyez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose’s attempt to spice up her love life goes a little awry. To put it mildly. Uses the ‘alien sex pollen’ cliché, without using any actual sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Guys Night Out

Part One – Guys Night Out 

“So, how about dinner?” Rose asks, tongue in teeth. The Doctor is sprawled across a tattered blanket spread out on the concrete floor, bits of alien tech scattered around him, wires looped around his neck. He’s dressed in a stained blue t-shirt a few inches too short for his long torso, and every time he shifts she gets a tantalizing glimpse of his back or belly. It almost distracts her from the rumbling of her empty stomach. “We can go to that chippie down the road. Or if you’d prefer, we can go to the Ivy and hobnob with the snobs.” Showing him off to society is rapidly becoming her favorite hobby. He may be noisy and have the attention span of a small child, but he cleans up real good.

A noncommittal grunt is his only response, and Rose sighs. Her eyes stray towards the piece of TARDIS coral in the corner, an irregularly shaped amber chunk roughly the size of a mastiff floating in a nutrient bath. She’s at a loss as to how something that resembles a sea creature can be transformed into a bigger on the inside time machine. The Doctor’s rambling explanations about ‘block transfer computations’ and ‘pocket universes’ leave her none the wiser.

“Or I could order a pizza and we could eat it here,” she continues. “You could tell me what you’re working on, and I can pretend to understand one out of every ten words you speak while in reality I’m mentally undressing you and thinking of all sorts of naughty things we could do together.” 

“Umph,” the Doctor replies. He’s critically examining several wires which have grown a sheath of coral – components he’s modifying to be compatible with the TARDIS. She wonders if he’s heard anything she’s said; usually the words ‘undress’ and ‘naughty’ cause him to prick up his proverbial ears – as well as other, definitely not proverbial, parts – and he’d be all over her. 

Rose sighs. Clearly, getting his attention is going to require a more hands-on approach. So she rises from the desk where she’d been pretending to work on a Torchwood report and in actuality drawing doodles of the Doctor’s bum, kicks off her heels and stands behind him, lightly running her stockinged toe along the hollow of his spine. He automatically arches into her caress like a cat, and she grins down at him as he puts the components aside and angles he head to eye her obliquely. She’d reach down and stroke his hair, but at the moment, it scares her. 

This week, he’s investigating the truth behind the ‘blonds have more fun’ saying. It had given her the shock of her life to come home two evenings ago to find his hair done up in white-blond spikes, his eyebrows dyed to match. The hair is disturbing enough, but it’s the near-invisible eyebrows that are driving her spare. She wants to pin him to the ground and color them in with a Sharpie. 

And then move on to other things. And she wants to do those other things before she dies of sexual frustration. 

Their first few months together, he’d been insatiable (once she’d realized he was actually interested in women – it’d been a bit iffy, at first, and sometimes she’s still not sure…) He’d thrown himself into learning every aspect of being human with the same enthusiasm he’d exhibited when exploring a new planet. And he’s proven to be a _very_ good student. 

He’s matured quite a bit since then, becoming less demanding of her. He’s become more like his Time Lord self, content with using hand-holding and hugging to express his feelings. Rose had thought that she’d like a man who wasn’t thinking about sex non-stop. She hadn’t realized that that would result in _her_ thinking about sex non-stop. It’s making concentrating on work frustrating, to say the least. 

The Doctor rolls over so he’s looking up at her, over the rims of the brainy specs he refuses to admit that he actually needs. 

“Can’t,” he says finally, jolting Rose out of her reverie. For a moment she flounders, trying to remember what they’d been discussing. Then her stomach rumbles helpfully. _Oh, yeah. Dinner._

“Why not?” 

He tweaks his ear absently. “Donna and I are going to that new club tonight,” he says, his tone resigned. “I can’t put it off any longer; Greg’s been after me for a review.” Which explains why he’s been burying himself in his work on the TARDIS, she realizes. For two months, he’s been stuck writing for _The Star’_ s weekly homo/bi/whatever-sexual column until a new writer is found and, while he’s proven to be surprisingly adept at it, he’s uncomfortable with researching the subject matter. He’s still very young and naïve when it comes to matters of human sexuality and his body’s reactions to it, and he really doesn’t like exploring it so publicly. 

“You mean that ‘gentleman only’ club?” she asks. His only answer is a rueful half-smile. “Can’t wait to hear how you’re getting Donna into that one.” He just grins mischievously.   
Rose is happy he’s found someone to hang around with, even if too much exposure to Donna brings out his own inner Donna. He’s much happier now that he has someone he can spend time with when Rose is busy – as is Rose, since leaving the Doctor alone for too long inevitably results in ruined appliances and vanishing cosmetics.

But still, this is the third time in a row he’s blown her off to do some research with Donna. If he were any other man, Rose would suspect him of cheating. 

Rose just sighs. “And I suppose you don’t have time to eat, then?” That’s another problem with his friendship with Donna: she’s currently on a diet, and the Doctor tends to unconsciously mimic her habits when he’s around her. Lately, he’s had days where all he’s eaten are a light salad. He’s aware of the problem, and makes a conscious effort to eat, but his diet just isn’t as healthy as it should be. 

“I’ll eat there. I _promise,_ ” he adds emphatically, when he sees her skepticism. “I have to review the food anyway, and I don’t want to fill up before then.”   
Her shoulders slump. “All right… I’ll just… grab something from the cafeteria then after I finish my report.” Dejectedly, she walks back to her desk. She really misses spending time with him, and even sharing a hasty dinner would have been nice. 

She’s suddenly grabbed from behind and pulled against his thin chest. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into her hair. “I know I haven’t been the best boyfriend lately, but I promise, once I hand over this column to the new writer, I’ll make more time for you.” He tightens his hold on her. “It’s just for one more week. And I promise, I won’t let it get in the way tomorrow night. We’ll make it a Valentine’s Day to remember, all right?” 

Valentine’s Day is a somewhat more boisterous holiday in Pete’s World, Rose has found. Rather than the private custom of celebrating with romantic dinners and expensive hotel rooms, the day is celebrated with a holiday from work and a lively, city-wide festival, usually culminating in masquerade parties, in which couples dressed in coordinating costumes, drank wine and feasted on sinfully delicious holiday sweets. Rose has heard tales of parties where the sweets are laced with aphrodisiacs, and the stories of the goings-on, told in whispers around water coolers across London, are legendary. And more than a little XXX-rated. There’s a reason so many people in this universe have November birthdays… 

Rose has spent the last several years avoiding the holiday, finding it a bitter reminder of all she has lost. This year, she has no excuse. The Vitex heiress and her mysterious beau are expected to put in an appearance at at least one social function. Surprisingly, the Doctor readily agreed to go, provided it wasn’t one of the huge, star-studded extravaganzas. The Doctor loves to read and write celebrity gossip – but he hates being the subject of it. 

They’re planning to attend a costume party one of Pete’s business associates is holding. Fortunately, since the guest list included more professional acquaintances rather than personal, the party should be more low-key than many of the others Rose has received invitations to. There will be private rooms for those thus inclined – and oh, is Rose inclined! – but it will all be very discrete. 

As for the matter of costumes… The Doctor had argued for butler and French maid in honor of their first visit to Pete’s World, but after the revelation that her step dad periodically dresses in a maid’s outfit for her mum, Rose has lost the taste for the idea. She eventually managed to talk the Doctor into a pirate and wench combo, on one condition.

She isn’t going to be the wench. 

It had taken quite a bit of wheedling on his part for her to agree to this. She’s used to his occasional need to get in touch with his feminine side – which, thanks to his unique biology, is far more literal with him than in your standard male – and no longer even bats an eye when she catches him in a dress, or stockings or, on one memorable occasion, a stuffed bra. But it’s always been a private thing, known only to the two of them. And her mum. And Pete. And anyone who bought a tabloid after the ‘satiny red girly knickers’ incident at London’s most posh restaurant. Rose isn’t sure how well it’ll be received in public; he could be seen as playful, cheeky, eccentric, or downright odd. Rose doesn’t care how it’ll reflect on her, but her mum will raise hell if the Doctor causes a Tyler family controversy that doesn’t involve her. 

The Doctor glances up at the clock on the wall. “I’d better get ready,” he says, sounding as if he’s heading off to his execution. “Donna’s going to be here in fifteen minutes, and I haven’t even done my hair!” 

Rose releases him reluctantly. “I’ll see you later, then. Try to enjoy your boys’ night out with Donna.” The Doctor just _humphs_ again and runs off. 

Rose watches him go, then begins picking up the tools he’s left scattered on the blanket. _In some ways,_ she thinks irritably, _he is_ such _a normal bloke_. When she’s gathered them up and tossed them haphazardly in the Doctor’s tool box (which he’ll raise hell about, but it serves him right for not picking up after himself) she goes to TARDIS in the tank, reaches in and pats the slick surface. Something brush her mind in response, a feather-light touch that makes her smile. She’ll never be able speak with it like the Doctor can, which may be a good thing, considering the infant ship’s insistence on calling the Doctor ‘mummy.’ Rose doesn’t really want to know what sort of relationship the ship thinks it has with her. 

With the clean-up done, Rose gathers up her paperwork and is preparing to turn it in when she notices that no one has signed off on the autopsy report. She groans inwardly; Owen is the last person she wants to see right now. Or ever, really. Resignedly, Rose rides the lift down to the basement to the isolated morgue. Rose still isn’t sure if the morgue’s seclusion is because of its grisly purpose, or its head of staff, sugeon-turned-xenobiologist Dr. Owen Harper.

Rose braces herself at the entrance to Owen’s lair – _lab_ , she corrects herself, _you are above using the nicknames the rest of Torchwood has given him. Even if he is a creepy little troll and treats the morgue like his lair._

Owen is examining a sample under the microscope when she enters, his back to her. Rose pauses, fixing a smile to her face, then clears her throat loudly. Owen makes a dismissive wave, choosing instead to begin preparing another slide. Rose’s smile slips, and she slaps her foot against the floor impatiently. Owen responds with a rude hand gesture, and Rose sighs. “The annual employee review is next month, Dr. Harper,” Rose says flatly. “As one of the Torchwood team leaders, they ask for my opinion on everyone I’ve worked with. Don’t make ‘prat’ the kindest thing I say about you.” 

Owen whirls around, putting on his best smarmy grin. “Miss Tyler! I didn’t see you there! I was busy with this very important experiment – ” 

“If it had been important or delicate, you’d have started yelling at me the moment I walked through that door,” Rose snorts. She’s been on the receiving end of far too many Harper rants to let this bother her. “I just need you to sign this so I can file my paperwork and go home.” 

“Wouldn’t want to keep the Boy Toy waiting,” Owen says. 

Before she can stop herself, she growls, somehow managing to express all the frustration she couldn’t find words for with the Doctor in one inarticulate sound. A slow smile spreads across Owen’s sharp features, and Rose’s heart sinks. _Of course_. While the Doctor is Captain Obtuse, Owen Harper can read her like a book. 

“Oh-ho! Pretty Boy not doing it for you?” Owen sneers. Really, she should know by now that if anyone can identify sexual frustration, it’s Owen. After all, he’s an expert on the subject. He’d written the Torchwood manual on how sexual frustration can affect job performance. 

Rose grits her teeth. “It’s none of your damn business,” she snarls. 

Owen has had it in for the Doctor ever since the Great Severed Limb Emancipation two months previous. The Doctor had been deeply distressed by the sheer number of limbs in jars on display in Owen’s lab. Rose had had no idea just how upsetting it had been to him until one night she and the Doctor had been working late at Torchwood. She’d just put the finishing touches on a proposal for the Board when she’d received a frantic call from Owen – the Doctor had broken into his lab and was dumping out the containers.   
Rose had raced downstairs just in time to witness a newly-freed lump of flesh – a foot, from the looks of it – launch itself from the shattered glass of its container and towards Owen’s face, stubby toes struggling to gain a foothold in the man’s mouth. 

Owen had run around the lab shrieking like a little girl while the Doctor, oblivious, had crouched among the piles of limbs, his face crestfallen as he prodded one sodden foot with his sonic screwdriver. “I wanted to see if any of them could be like me,” he’d told her sadly. “That’s the only one that’s alive,” he’d gestured towards Owen. Rose had wanted to take him into her arms and comfort him, but realized that saving Owen should probably be the first priority. Pity, that. Owen had survived the encounter with several scratches from toenails and a nasty case of an alien equivalent of athlete’s foot on his tongue and lips. 

That was when Rose had first realized how lonely the Doctor was, shortly before he’d met this universe’s Donna Noble. 

“Ah,” Owen says. “Do I detect the lovely dulcet tone of someone who isn’t getting enough?” 

“Drop it. _Now._ ” 

Before Owen can jump on that, she shoves the papers into his hands and snaps, “Sign.” 

He does, but before she can snatch the papers back, he yanks them out of the way. “I could help you with your little problem,” he says. 

“I don’t. Have. A problem,” Rose grits out. 

“No… there’s nothing wrong with you,” Owen says with a lascivious grin. Rose somehow manages not to strangle him – murdering one’s co-workers, no matter how well-deserved, leads to even more paperwork. “Your boyfriend, however, is a half-alien with a hormone imbalance. This could lead to… dry spells.” 

“It’s not the first time I survived a dry spell.” 

“You may survive, but I’m not so sure about the rest of us,” Owen says. “It’s only been two weeks, and you’re ready to bite off my head.” 

Rose doesn’t want to know how Owen knows how long it’s been since she and the Doctor were last intimate. “And you think you can help?” 

“Yeah. Sounds like you need a little ASP,” Owen smirks. 

Rose reflexively slaps him. 

“Oi!” he shrieks. “I said ASP – A-S-P!” 

Rose mentally runs through the catalogue of Torchwood acronyms and comes up blank. Meaning this is an Owen acronym, and odds are good that the ‘S’ stands for ‘Sex.’ “And that would be…?” 

“Alien Sex Pollen,” Owen clarifies. “It’s, er, not an _official_ classification, but even the higher-ups use it. It’s an umbrella term for alien plant-based chemicals with aphrodisiac qualities.” Owen goes to one of the stainless steel cabinets and removes a locked box. He opens it by pressing his thumb to an electronic reader, and the lid slowly opens to reveal vials and packets of fluids and powders of various colours and consistencies. 

There are a lot more varieties than Rose has anticipated. She wonders if Unresolved Sexual Tension is a devastating epidemic across the galaxy, for there to be so many possible cures for it. 

“And why would you want to help?” Rose demands. 

“Ohh… there’s the little matter of the employee performance review,” he says. “I might have pissed off Dr. Rourke again, and I could really use some positive feedback. You don’t have to say I have a charming personality,” he adds hastily, when she wrinkles her nose in disgust, “just tell them I’m good at my job.” 

Unfortunately, Owen is good at his job. The best, really. So she wouldn’t actually be giving in to his demands since she’d be saying what she’d normally have said anyway. And, dammit, she is more than a little desperate. “All right,” she says cautiously. “Tell me about this… ASP.” 

“I’ve sampled all of them,” he says. 

“That’s not something to be proud of,” Rose says dryly. “In fact, it’s a little disturbing. Do you always try out random extra-terrestrial plants and hope for sexy results?” 

“I tested them on Weevils, first,” he defends. “It’s perfectly safe! There are some side effects, yeah; this one, for example, works quickly and makes both partners insatiable for several hours, but the Weevils were lethargic for a day afterward. This one, on the other hand, acts more slowly and lasts longer, and there isn’t as much passion, but at least you’ll be able to get out of bed the next morning.” His eyes brighten. “It all depends – ” 

“Owen, if you use the ‘lesser of two Weevils’ pun again, I’m going to assign you to a clean-up crew for the next six months.” 

Owen scowls. “The point is, they’re all safe. Not only that, but most of the Torchwood staff uses ASP; it’s why we cultivate so much of it in the Hothouse. Even your father has been known to –” 

“If you value your life, you will shut up _right now,_ ” Rose growls. 

“Right,” Owen says, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Parents don’t have sex; forgot that little fact.” 

Rose ignores him. “If I do this – and it’s a very big if – I want something that won’t have either of us throwing ourselves at the nearest available object – living or inanimate – and shagging it rotten. I don’t want to be focused on sex to the exclusion of all else because, with our luck, that’s when aliens will invade. I don’t want to be incapacitated for hours or days afterward. I just want one good night with the man I love!” 

“I’d recommend this one. Basically, it amplifies your feelings, so you won’t go around shagging sofas if you don’t fancy them.” He selects a packet of what looks like pink dust. “It’s potent, fast-acting, and wears off in a couple of hours with no side-effects beyond what’s caused by your… activities. Things’ll get a little primal for awhile, but you’ll still be able to react if there’s trouble. So far, there haven’t been any complaints.” 

Primal? That sounds messy. And fun. Still, she eyes the packet warily. 

“It’s safe; I promise. In fact, this particular compound is a legal drug on many planets – and there are very strict guidelines for something like this. Look, I may not be fond of your bloke, but I’m not stupid enough to give you something harmful and destroy my career because of some stupid vendetta.” 

Rose considers. Sexy clothing and subtle (as well as not-so-subtle) hints have had no effect on the Doctor. Maybe a little something to spice up their love life won’t hurt. And she can always change her mind and return it. 

“All right,” she sighs. “I’ll give it a try. And if you tell _anyone_ , Owen, I’m slipping some of this in your food and sending you into the Weevil pens.” He blanches, and she turns on a heel and stalks out, the packet clutched in her fingers. 

_I can’t believe I’m doing this…_

~oOo~ 

The line to the club wraps around the block, and the Doctor eyes it in dismay. The club is far busier than any of the others the Doctor has reviewed – and it’s the first he’s been to that is strictly men only. He’s starting to attract attention, and it makes him feel uncomfortable. He suddenly finds himself wishing he were in his previous body – this incarnation is far too ‘cute’ and ‘adorable’ and ‘pretty’ for his own good, and he feels like he’s going to be eaten alive. He tries to hide behind Donna as they head towards the club, but she stops and shoves him in front of her. “You first!” he squawks. 

“Oh, no, Alien Boy. It’s up to you to get me in. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly their target demographic.” She grabs her chest in emphasis. “You might be oblivious to my feminine figure, but they won’t be.” 

The Doctor gets the feeling this is one of those dreaded situations there’s just no right response for. So he simply grabs her arm and steers her towards the door. “Just play along,” he murmurs into her ear. “Trust me. I’ll get you inside.” He grins broadly and winks. She glowers suspiciously. 

“Check out that line,” she groans as they get closer. “We’ll be out here all night. I was hoping to get a little bit of sleep before work tomorrow, you know.” 

The Doctor clucks his tongue. “You’re getting old, Donna Noble,” he chides. She smacks his shoulder. He pouts, then says, “Besides, I don’t have to worry about lines.” He walks straight up to the bouncer, and Donna trails behind him, intrigued. No doubt she wants to see him try to take on the bouncer who may be the same height as the Doctor, but is three times as wide, and all of that is muscle. 

“I’m John Smith. I’m with _The Star_. I _should_ be on the list,” he says haughtily. “I was invited by the owner to review the club for my column.” 

The bouncer makes a show of checking his list, then frowns when he actually finds the Doctor’s name. 

“Looks like you’re in,” the bouncer says. He eyes Donna and scowls. “But your… friend may want to go somewhere else.” 

“Oh, don’t mind Donald,” the Doctor says, slinging his arm around Donna’s shoulders. “He woke up this morning wanting to be pretty.” 

The bouncer studies Donna closely, then nods and steps aside. 

“He didn’t put up much of a protest, did he?” Donna says as they go through the entrance. They’re standing in a short hallway which ends at another doorway. The Doctor pauses to brace himself for what’s to come, which is made more difficult by the photos lining the wall. They’re artistic, even tastefully so – but they still all portray nude men in suggestive poses. One photo, situated at the Doctor’s eye level and portraying two men and some rather creative uses of gardening implements, makes his mouth dry and his heart beat faster. He really, really hopes he isn’t going to see _that_ in the club… And he’s never going to be able to look at a corkscrew the same way again. 

He swallows, and forces a grin. “Come along, Donald!” he says, and with a cheeky wink and a click of his tongue, he hauls her towards the second door, which he opens with a flourish. 

“I hate you,” she mutters into his ear. The Doctor ignores her, taking a deep breath and steeling himself as he takes his first step into the seething mass of wiggling, gyrating, sashaying humanity. The deafening music washes over them, and he fights the impulse to cover his ears. _I can do this… I’ve been to Mardi Gras, to Carnivale, to planet-wide celebrations that make this seem tame in comparison. This… this is nothing!_

The club takes up two floors. The ground floor is primarily taken up by the dance floor, interspersed with cages and small platforms for scantily-clad club dancers. A stage for the DJ or a live band is set up along one wall, and a crowded bar takes up two more walls. The fourth wall is filled with a massive mirror. Strobe lights flash, music hammers against his ears, and humanity ebbs and flows around them. The Doctor feels ill from the sensory overload and wants to sit down. 

“Okay, I’ve changed my mind – I bloody _love_ you,” Donna says, her eyes eagerly sweeping around the crowded club to take in the athletic young men in skimpy costumes that were gyrating in cages or on tables. “This is much better than any of the clubs I’ve been to with Nerys.” 

“You do realize you’re not their type, right?” the Doctor murmurs in her ear. It’s a condition he envies; they’ve barely taken ten steps into the crowd and he’s already received more leers and pats on the bum than he’s comfortable with. 

“I’m never their type at a straight club, either,” Donna says. “Doesn’t stop me from looking.” She licks her lips. “Or groping.” 

“You do remember that you’re here to _work?_ ” 

“Sure,” Donna says vaguely. The Doctor sighs. _Really, you’d think I would know better by now after last time…_ He’d leave her behind, but he hates going into clubs on his own. 

They shove their way through the crowd and manage to reach the stairs up to the dining section with most of their dignity intact. By now, most of the patrons have moved downstairs, more interested in showing off their moves on the dance floor or chatting up potential dates at the bar, and he and Donna are able to secure what their host assures them is a very good table, next to a massive stage. “The Captain’s performing in ten minutes; you’ll definitely want good seats for that,” the host says with an outrageous wink before leaving them. 

“The Captain,” the Doctor mutters. “Joy.” He really, really hopes this isn’t a full monty show… 

This floor is smaller, used for those who want dinner and a show. A series of tables are arranged around a curtained stage, and there’s a smaller bar with a classier – and more expensive – selection of drinks. Instead of garish club lights, there is dim overhead lighting, presumably meant to be romantic. 

The music from below is muffled to the level of a dull roar, and the Doctor can actually hear again. Which is a pity, considering the current train of Donna’s thought.   
“The Captain,” Donna muses. “Think he’s a pirate or something? ‘Cause I wouldn’t mind watching a Captain Jack Sparrow look-alike shiver his timbers,” she purrs. 

As the Doctor tries to puzzle that out, a waitress sidles up to their table. At first glance, the waitress is the blond Barbie type, all long legs, trim waist, unbelievable bust and a spill of wavy gold hair that he can’t help but envy, his own peroxide locks having turned out more ‘bleach’ than ‘blond.’ Then a startling bass voice asks if they want anything, and beside him, Donna jumps in surprise.

The Doctor is about to ask where the wait… person bought his shoes; he’s never seen spiked heels like that in his size, and he’s a little envious. But he stops himself just in time. Donna doesn’t know just how far his cross-dressing tendencies go, and he’d prefer to keep it that way. He doesn’t want to lose a friend because he’s just too bizarre. 

Remembering his promise to Rose that he’d at least try to eat something, he orders the house chips and a soda. Donna orders something considerably stronger, and the Doctor fervently hopes she’s not going to overdo it. Last time, he’d had to haul her offstage. And it turns out, she bites when she’s sloshed. 

When the waitperson is gone, Donna leans over and mutters into the Doctor’s ear, “It’s not fair when a man’s prettier then I am.” 

“Now we know why the bouncer believed me,” the Doctor muses. “Compared to him, you’re positively mannish – oi!” he yelps when she flicks his ear in annoyance. 

She’s still glaring at him in stony silence when the waiter returns a few minutes later with a basket of chips and their drinks. The Doctor grabs a handful and begins to wolf them down, but on his sixth chip, he notices something a little odd about them. 

The Doctor eyes the chips warily. “Er, Donna, do these look… phallic, to you?” 

Donna picks one up, examines it with a smirk, then slowly slides it into her mouth. The Doctor promptly loses his appetite and slides the basket to the side. 

Just then, the lights around them dim and the spotlights snap on. Music blasts out of a speaker near the Doctor’s ear, and he grimaces in anticipation of the lovely ringing sound he’s going to be hearing the next few days. The Doctor is mentally composing his outline for what he knows is going to be a less than stellar review when the stripper struts out on stage, and all thoughts of food quality and atmosphere fly out of his head as the Captain takes center stage, blue greatcoat flaring around him.

“You have got to be kidding me,” the Doctor breathes, voice pitched slightly higher as his inner Donna takes over. 

The stripper is Captain Jack Harkness. 

~tbc~


	2. Just Us Girls

Two – Just Us Girls 

 

Rose is still awake when the Doctor finally returns, watching some BBC costume drama depicting history very differently from what she remembers. She’s not sure if it’s an actual difference between her home universe and this one, or just artistic license, and at the moment she’s just doesn’t care. 

She’s sprawled across the sofa, a pizza carton and a couple of bottles of beer littering the coffee table in front of her. The packet of pollen is in her hand, and she’s been staring at it since coming home, wondering how she’s going to broach the subject. She has no clue how he’ll react; she can never predict when he’ll act like a curious alien, or when he’ll just be a normal bloke. 

The Doctor announces his presence with an “Owwww…” in a voice more high-pitched than normal, followed by “Owowowowow…” Rose has leapt to her feet before he can finish, flipping on the lamp so she can better see him. There are no visible injuries, though he’s hunched over and his face is lined with pain. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks, keeping her voice calm. With the Doctor unused to a body that can be injured by something as simple as the edge of a piece of paper, he tends to be overly dramatic about the smallest of injuries. She’s learned not to panic until she’s certain he’s genuinely hurt, and by staying calm, she can usually calm him. 

“Donna,” he groans. “When she’s drunk and you’re all that’s standing between her and a stripper, she _kicks._ And for someone who can miss setting a drink on a wide table, she has _excellent_ aim.” He stumbles forward, catching himself on the edge of the sofa. “I now understand the human male obsession with protecting themselves down there.” He winced again as he accepted Rose’s shoulder to lean on, and with her help, he settles on the sofa. 

“Donna kicked you in the groin?” she gasps. “Can I get you anything? An ice pack, pain reliever, anything? 

“Ice pack,” he says. He leans forward, trying to snag a beer from the coffee table, then flinches when he pulls his sore muscles. “And one of those beers. And a couple pieces of pizza.” 

Rose obliges, grabbing the ice pack she kept in the freezer and handing it to him before grabbing a plate, piling half the pizza atop it, and then handing him a can of beer. “Wasn’t her fault,” the Doctor continues. “I just… sort of got in the way.” He looks so miserable she wants to cuddle him, but she guesses physical contact isn’t something he wants right now. 

She tries to think of something to help take his mind off his pain. She spies a Styrofoam container that he’d tossed on the coffee table when he’d sat. “What’s that?” she asks. 

“Complimentary chips for my pain,” he says flatly. Chips… that seems like a safe subject, she decides. 

“They smell good,” Rose says, taking an appreciative sniff. 

“Look at them,” the Doctor says. 

Rose carefully opens the box, half expecting from the Doctor’s tone that the chips would attack her. But when she gets a good look at them, she can’t help but laugh. “Kind of in poor taste, wasn’t it?” she says, examining the chip carefully. “Like rubbing salt in the wound. I’m impressed by how anatomically correct they are, though. That’s art.” She pops one into her mouth, missing the Doctor’s wince, and says, “Oh, these are _gorgeous_!” 

“I’ll take your word for it,” the Doctor mutters. “I’ve lost my taste for chips.” 

“It’s better if you break off the end so they look like normal chips – ” Rose begins, demonstrating, then notices the Doctor cringing and his hand shifting protectively over his groin. “Sorry,” she sighs, then when the Doctor isn’t looking, eats the emasculated chip. 

“The stripper was Captain Jack,” the Doctor says suddenly. 

Rose nearly chokes on her chip. “Our Jack?” 

“Not _our_ Jack, no, this world’s Jack, who isn’t all Wrong. Same personality, though; he flirted with both me and Donna and gave me his number.” The Doctor wrinkled his nose. “Never realised just how much he reeks of pheromones, or how vulnerable a human or part human body is to them,” he says with a slight blush. 

Thoughts of a threesome flash through Rose’s mind, but she pushes them aside. For now. Later in bed, though… “Why is he working as a stripper?” 

“I was too busy either trying to pin down Donna or hunching over in pain to ask, but I seriously doubt stripping is his purpose for being in this century. I don’t know if he’s a Time Agent or a con man here, but there is one thing I’m sure of,” the Doctor says darkly. “If Captain Jack is here, trouble can’t be too far behind.” 

~oOo~ 

The Doctor awakens feeling very grateful for his inhuman ability to recover from injuries. Oh, his recovery time is slower than a Time Lord’s, but at least by the time morning rolls around he feels like a man again. Well, about as manly as it was possible to feel when you’re planning to spend the holiday night dressed as a piratical Lady of Negotiable Virtue. 

He can’t wait. 

But that won’t be until the evening. For now, he’s in his office at _The Star_ , putting the finishing touches on a holiday-themed article he’d been prepping for the evening edition. He’d been calling around all week, interviewing actors and musicians, athletes and politicians, asking how they celebrated the holiday. It was incredible how such a wide range of occupations resulted in such similar celebrations, even to the point of having matching guest lists (which is going to result in new rivalries when hosts feel insulted over a guest choosing a party other than their own – he can’t wait for the fallout.) The Doctor polishes up the article, his editing skills having much improved since he’d begun to work with Donna, and has it done well before the noon deadline. 

Donna calls about an hour after she’s supposed to be in, sounding utterly wrecked. She doesn’t apologize for temporarily unmanning the Doctor, but from the sound of things, she doesn’t even remember doing it. She does apologize profusely for not being able to come in, and the Doctor tells her to just take the day off and relax. It isn’t as if she makes a habit of this, after all; she’s usually too busy taking care of her dying father to spend an evening out having fun. 

He leaves early and heads across London to pick up their costumes. He somehow manages not to squeal like a girl – no, like a _man_ , just a man with a very high-pitched squeal – as he examines his dress, and he’s impressed with the quality of Rose’s costume as well. As he leaves, garment bags slung over one arm and a shop assistant carrying the boxes of accessories, he tries to decide whether he likes ‘Dread Pirate Rose’ or ‘Bloody Rose’ better. He had planned to call himself ‘Ginger,’ but is now debating between ‘Goldie’ or ‘Saffron.’ 

As he and the assistant are loading the costume into his car, something makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and he stiffens. He whirls around, just in time to see someone vanish around a corner. It had been just a glimpse, but it had been enough for him to recognize the woman who had triggered a normally dormant sense: Martha Jones. 

It isn’t impossible; he knows that an alternate Martha exists. 

Or, rather, existed. Past tense. 

He’d been surprised and touched when he’d found Rose’s Torchwood file on Martha, as well as disappointed that Rose hadn’t told him. Torchwood had no reason to research Martha, which meant that if Rose was trying to find her, she was doing it for him. The Doctor had run his own search out of curiosity, but hadn’t been able to find anything. Torchwood’s advanced systems had been able to dig up more information, and the Doctor had eagerly read the file. 

Martha’s life started off pretty much the same as her other universe counterpart: Born to Clive and Francine Jones, with her brother Leo and sister Laticia. Family well off, even after a divorce, and Martha was able to afford med school, which she’d nearly completed. 

And then, nothing. It was as if she’d ceased to exist. No school records or employment history, no police records of a mysterious disappearance, no marriage certificate or death certificate, nothing. There’d even been a note in her file that certain records, such as her birth record, had vanished.   
No one else in her family exhibited the same erasure. It stank of a cover-up, but as much as he wanted to investigate, he had to accept the fact that this Martha was none of his business, and that if she still lived, she wouldn’t be shadowing him. 

Despite all this, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s being watched, that his half-glimpsed observer is indeed the missing Martha Jones, and that she has the feel of a time traveler. 

~oOo~ 

“How do you feel?” Rose asks as soon as the Doctor walked in the door. She’d spent the day filling out the paperwork Owen had given her for the ASP, a hundred page epic that basically boiled down to ‘use responsibly with consenting partners,’ and now she’s anxious for a little fun, if the Doctor’s up to it. 

He gives her a toothy grin. “Like a man again. Want to see my dress?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, which Rose is profoundly grateful for since she doesn’t think there is any good way to answer; instead, he pulls the costume out of its bag and holds it up in front of his chest. Rose laughs delightedly; it’s low-cut and displays a lot of leg, appropriately slutty for a wench. Rose isn’t sure how she’s going to get through the evening without losing it. 

As she pulls out her own costume for examination (it has more leather than she remembers; had the Doctor switched it without telling her?) the Doctor picks up a box, fishes out something gold and curly, then plunks it on his head and begins to fuss with it. 

“I thought you were going with a ginger wig?’ 

He shrugs, and curls ripple around his shoulders and back. “I was, but it looked odd with my dyed eyebrows.” He pulls off the wig and holds it, running his fingers through the golden curls. “This is a much nicer shade of blond than mine,” he sighs enviously. “And it’s curly!” He spends a few moments straightening curls and watching them spring back into shape. “I had curly blond hair once. Clashed horribly with my clothes. Well, _everything_ clashed with those clothes.” He wrinkles his nose distastefully. “Don’t know what I was thinking. Don’t think I was, really. Thinking, I mean. Well, about clothes, anyway; I’m always thinking about something.” 

“Speaking of clothes,” she interrupts, before he can list everything he’d ever thought between whatever regeneration that had been and now, “Mum stopped by and dropped off a couple of shirts for the festival. I had them specially made, as a surprise,” she says, laying out first a pastel pink shirt, then a robin’s egg blue one. They’re long sleeved, with an intricate design running down the right sleeve of the blue shirt, and the left sleeve of the pink. Colorful ribbons are worked into the pattern of the sleeve from elbow to wrist and hang like fringe. 

“Tradition?” he says as he picks up the pink shirt. 

“Well,” she begins, snagging the shirt from him and placing the blue one in his hands. “A dating or married couple will wear a pink or blue shirt, to show they’re taken. For the people who are single but looking, there’s a yellow shirt for people looking for a partner of the opposite sex, and green for those seeking a same sex partner. Black shirts are worn by those who are off limits, for whatever reason. It originates from a plague that swept through the British Isles about two hundred years ago, sending the population into a decline. So a festival was held to encourage meeting and mating and, well, it was apparently a resounding success.” 

“Hmm…” is all he says as he tugs off his dress shirt and tee, giving Rose a tantalizing glimpse of pale skin (odd, hadn’t he had chest hair last time she’d seen him shirtless?) before pulling on the blue shirt. “Soft,” he says approvingly. “And it fits!” Finding clothes that aren’t tailor-made that fit his long frame has become a source of frustration for him. “Valentine’s Day here sounds a bit more like Lupercalia,” he observes. “What are the ribbons for?” 

“To bind lovers together. It’s supposed to be evocative of a hand-fasting ritual.” She runs her fingers along a white ribbon. “We don’t have to actually tie ourselves together, of course, since we’re not married,” and being tied to someone who bounds around like an excited, hyperactive puppy sounds a little dangerous and a lot exhausting, “but the symbolism is there.” 

As the Doctor roots around the drawers for a pair of jeans, grumbling whenever one of the ribbons catches, Rose thrusts her hand into her jeans pocket and fingers the packet of pollen. She needs to ask him about it, the sooner the better. Might as well get it out now. 

“I wanted to talk to you about…” Rose pauses and takes a deep breath, then pulls the packet of pollen out of her pocket and takes the plunge. “This. It’s an aphrodisiac, and I thought maybe - if you want to, I mean, we don’t have to if you don’t want to – er, give it a try? Since we haven’t – you know, and I thought maybe… It’s a holiday tradition,” she adds, though that doesn’t make it sound any better. 

The Doctor pauses in his hunt and takes the package and examines the contents carefully. Rose squirms uncomfortably when the silence stretches on, with the Doctor’s neutral expression giving nothing away. Never a good sign… She reaches forward, intending to grab the packet and flush it, when the Doctor shoots her a crooked grin. 

“So Dr. Harper finally persuaded you to try some of his ASP, did he?” the Doctor asks, sounding amused. 

Rose gapes, feeling quite like a landed fish as her mouth works without making any coherent sounds. 

“How do you know about the pollen?” she finally manages, both embarrassed and a little relieved. Especially since he seems so matter-of-fact about the subject, rather than offended. 

The Doctor rolls his eyes. “It’s not exactly Torchwood’s best kept secret,” he points out. “Not when everyone uses it and files paperwork for it. Plus, your mum told me all about it when she was dying my hair.” He touches his blond spikes absently. “Knows quite a lot about it, your mum. Apparently, Tony owes his existence to it. That was two and a half hours of my life I wish I could Retcon away.” The Doctor shudders. 

Rose really doesn’t want to know how that topic came up. 

The Doctor sticks his finger into the packet, then pulls it out and licks off the pink crystals that stuck. Rose tenses, half hoping that that will be enough to trigger the Doctor’s sex drive, but he doesn’t do anything more erotic than roll his tongue around his mouth as he analyzes it. Which, Rose admits, she finds very erotic, because she knows what that tongue can do… 

“Hmm…” he says thoughtfully. “Argaxis pollen, blended with an extract of Golmeriran oils to neutralize the stronger mating urges and cause the pollen to clump, along a touch yaargo leaf for a slight buzz and lowering of inhibitions, and just a dash of Posh Pink no. 7 for color. Common in the forty-ninth through fifty-third centuries, fast acting, works its way out of your system after three hours, side effects possible rare. I wonder how Dr. Harper got his hands on it?”

“Should I be alarmed by your knowledge of aphrodisiacs?” Rose asks, eyebrows arched. She won’t admit that she’s more than a little impressed by how much his tongue can tell him. 

He grins. “I’m an expert at everything, Rose Tyler, haven’t you figured that out by now? Anyway, it should be safe enough.” The Doctor tosses the packet back to her. “Should even work on my unique biology. If you want to try it, I’m willing to give it a shot. Just… don’t ever, _ever_ tell Jackie.” 

Rose shudders, imagining how her mum would react. First with disappointment, certainly, and then with curiosity, and an eagerness to share her own experiences and see how they compare with Rose’s. “Deal,” she agrees. 

~oOo~ 

Atop a low brick building, two figures watch the Doctor and Rose as they make their way down the busy street. 

“Do you think they’re the ones?” The woman has to shout to be heard above the rowdy crowd. 

“Don’t know,” the man currently known as Captain Jack ‘Hard Body’ (to the stripper aficionados) Harkness, responded absently as his eyes followed the pair through the crowd. “She’s been around for awhile, but him? I can’t find solid evidence of his existence before three months ago, just a Torchwood manufactured background.” When he loses sight of the couple, he drops his gaze to the scanner held by his companion. 

“They’ve both traveled in time, though,” the woman says. “She carries as much residual artron radiation as one of us, and him…” She shakes her head in wonder. “It’s _part_ of him.”

“Her history’s a bit dodgy, but her family is well established. She works for Torchwood, though, which puts her into an ideal position to liaise with and conceal any visitors to this time period. She could be one of the local distributors we’re looking for.” Jack leaps to his feet. “C’mon, Martha, their flat should be empty for a few hours. Let’s see if they have anything to hide.” 

~oOo~ 

“Are those… real?” Rose stares at the Doctor’s chest. They’ve just spent the afternoon enjoying the festival, and now they’re getting ready for the evening masquerade. Rose has just come out of the shower to find the Doctor sporting an alarmingly realistic pair of large breasts, squeezed into his dress’s laced top. Rose fights the urge to poke them to see if they jiggle. “You didn’t use some genderswapping ray you found at Torchwood, did you?” 

The Doctor’s eyes widen. “There are genderswapping rays? Really?” Rose groans inwardly, and makes a mental note to check to see if such equipment actually does exist and then to have it hidden or destroyed, because she has no doubt that the Doctor would actually try it. And like it. “No, these are just something I whipped up in the Torchwood lab. Look good, don’t they?” he says proudly. 

Ah. It’s good to know that Torchwood’s resources are being put to such important use. “Very… authentic,” Rose says weakly, as she begins to dress in her pirate costume. 

“What do you think?” he asks anxiously. “Did I get everything right? Do I make a believable woman?” 

With his long limbs, slim waist, flowing golden hair and gravity-defying bust, he looks remarkably like Pirate Wench Barbie. 

The Doctor twirls, and the skirts lift to reveal his lean legs. Lean, _hairless_ legs. “Did you wax?’ she asks. 

The Doctor nods proudly. “All on my own, too. Your mum’s a good teacher.” Then he winces. “Didn’t tell me how much it hurts in certain areas, though.” 

Rose decides then that the Doctor is no longer allowed to be alone with her mother. True, they seem to be getting along – usually – but Jackie is a bad influence on Rose’s sexually confused alien boyfriend. 

She suspects her mum is doing it on purpose as revenge for running off and traveling with the Doctor. 

“You left the sideburns, though.” 

He gives her a scandalized look. “I couldn’t get rid of them! They’re as much a part of who I am as my nose or ears! Besides, the wig covers them.” He pats a strand of hair over the offending sideburns. “See? All girly now.” 

The Doctor is still watching her nervously, and she realizes she hasn’t answered his question. “You are very believable as a woman. Scarily so, in fact.” Oh, he has manly qualities that are impossible to hide, but he does look more feminine than a lot of women Rose has seen. He’ll do. 

“And now for the finishing touch!” He smirks as he produces the pollen packet, and makes an exaggerated show of stuffing it into his ample cleavage, and Rose rolls her eyes before erupting into giggles. 

“I am so not digging that out of there,” she says. 

He just flashes a coy grin. “This should be fun!” the Doctor says, eyes dancing. “Just us girls!” 

Rose really, really hopes that’s not a sign of how the rest of the evening is going to go… 

 

~tbc~ 

 

From this point on, the Doctor spends the rest of the story in a dress. Just thought you’d like to know that.


	3. The Joy of Sex (Pollen)

Three – The Joy of Sex (Pollen) 

As they navigate the elaborate path leading to the opulent mansion hosting that night’s festivities, Rose realises she needn’t have concerned herself over the Doctor’s choice of costume. He isn’t the only man in drag, and his outfit is positively conservative compared to some. Rose finds herself flustered when a middle-aged business associate of her father’s, a man who makes passes at her every time they meet, winks at her as he walks past, clad only in a leather skirt and studded leather bra. Rose wishes she could unsee the saggy skin and bulges that the skimpy outfit reveals. 

Even the Doctor seems a little nonplussed by this, and fidgets with his outfit as though to assure himself that he isn’t displaying any unseemly bulges. 

“That’s Michael Harrison, one of the Vitex board members. He fancies me, you know,” Rose says absently. The Doctor’s head jerks up and he stumbles on his heels. 

“Does he? And do you fancy him? Should I be worried?” He’s genuinely curious about this; like his Time Lord counterpart, the Doctor seemingly lacks the jealous possessive streak all of Rose’s human boyfriends have had. 

Rose wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, no. I just thought I’d warn you in case he comes up and tries to make conversation. He’ll be smarmy with me and rude towards you, and that’s why.” 

“Ah.” He sounds as if he doesn’t quite understand, but is willing to play along anyway. 

“And watch out for his wife, the woman dressed as the male biker with the beard. She’s a real man-eater. They’re a charming couple, really.” Unlike the Doctor, Rose does have a very human jealous streak, and she’d seen how the cross-dressing biker had been eying the Doctor like one would examine their next meal. 

“She’s a cannibal?” the Doctor asks, his expression adorably confused, alarmed, and more than a little intrigued. “I wasn’t aware that was a common practice in Pete’s World.” 

“She doesn’t actually eat them,” Rose says, exasperated. The Doctor’s face falls. “She uses them for her own entertainment, then discards them. They both do, actually; it’s a game to them.” 

Now this he understands, having encountered several such personalities while working as a gossip columnist. “Ah. Why didn’t you just say so?” 

“Just… watch out. Don’t eat or drink anything they give you, because they have been known to use aphrodisiacs without consent.” 

“Charming,” the Doctor sighs as they reach the door. “Avoid the bearded lady and her Slitheen biker babe husband, got it.” Rose shows the doorman her invitation, and they enter the mansion. 

Rose has grown accustomed to the splendor of the Tyler mansion, and she’s lived inside the TARDIS and is used to enormous rooms and seemingly endless corridors, but the enormity of this mansion and its expensive décor is startling. This seems excessive even to her. 

No wonder their host had assured them that all couples would be able to have their own private rooms. 

“Posh,” is all the Doctor says, turning to examine a painting that looks like a Van Gogh, but no Van Gogh that had ever been painted in their home universe. 

“A bit, yeah,” Rose says, idly wondering when she’d become so blasé about the lifestyles of the rich and famous. 

Beside her, the Doctor suddenly stiffens. He whirls around, eyes wide as he scans the crowded room ahead of them. 

“What is it?” Rose asks, instantly alert. 

“I thought I felt…” he frowns, his gaze sweeping the crowd streaming into what looks like a massive ballroom. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” He tightens his grip on her hand and leads her forward. “Come on, Rose Tyler, show me how Valentine’s Day is really supposed to be celebrated!” he purrs. 

Rose hesitates, not fooled by his abrupt shift, but the promise of a romantic evening without the interference of Torchwood is just too much to resist, and she allows herself to be pulled along.

They pause just before the ballroom threshold so the Doctor can make last minute adjustments to his costume and Rose can pull on the eyepatch he’d insisted she wear. He’d seemed to find it a source of amusement when the first discussed it, calling her Evil Rose and giggling helplessly when she tried it on. She’s sure there’s some sort of inside joke there, but he has yet to explain it to her.

Rose takes a moment to scan the crowd, seeking the source of the Doctor’s earlier unease. But she sees nothing out of the ordinary. Not that ’ordinary’ could be easily applied to a crowd dressed as anything from harem girls to little green men, but nothing stands out to Rose’s Torchwood-honed observation skills. It‘s just a party, and a low-key one at that: there aren’t any rowdy revelers, the music is sensual without being raunchy, and for the most part, the costumes are tasteful. Several couples are on the dance floor; others have gravitated towards associates and are quietly conversing. Rose breathes a sigh of relief. Part of her had expected, at best, drunken, half naked couples making out in full view of everyone and at worst, a full-blown orgy. 

Beside her, the Doctor relaxes as well. She guesses that after his last few weeks of pub and club hopping with Donna, he’s not to keen on another wild night in the company of strangers. They head into the crowd, stopping to greet her father’s business associates and play the Vitex Heiress role she so loathes. Most of them are charmed by the Doctor and not at all put off by his choice of costume; either it’s normal, or his reputation has preceded him. Either way, Rose is having fun showing him off. He’s certainly proving to be an effective deterrent against her father’s rich friends who have single sons that she ’just has to meet.’

She loses the Doctor for awhile when he spots the nibbles and, with a delighted squeal, flounces over to the table to help himself to the heart-shaped chocolates and biscuits. She should stop him, she supposes; sugar amps up his natural hyperactivity and further loosens his gob. But she leaves him alone, since he’ll have an outlet for all that energy later. 

Rose scans the crowd as she sips at a drink a server had discretely slipped into her hand. Her mum and Pete haven’t arrived yet; they’re putting in an appearance at Harriet Jones’ party before arriving fashionably late. She’s a little relieved, since she really isn’t ready to face her mum in such a sexual environment, no matter how subdued the atmosphere is. 

She’s worried her mum might want to share stories about past masquerades. No good can come of that.

She spots the Harrisons off in the corner speaking to a man in an old-fashioned red military coat. She breathes a sigh of relief; they’d selected their prey for the evening, and would leave Rose and the Doctor alone.

“Rose, look!” the Doctor’s voice, shrill with excitement, interrupts her reverie. She turns around just in time to see him run up to her, his chest bouncing up and down with each step. “The chocolates have edible ball bearings!” he beams, handing her one in the shape of a heart. 

Rose takes a bite, and almost moans in ecstasy at the taste. Wow. She needs to know what kind of chocolate this is _now._ Probably some foreign brand that costs more than her flat’s monthly rent. She finishes it, and is about to lick her lips when the Doctor darts in and kisses her, tongue flicking out to clear off the rest of the chocolate.

“Dance?” he purrs into her ear, taking her arm and leading her onto the dance floor before she can reply.

He’s surprisingly competent at dancing in his heeled boots, though she wishes he wasn’t wearing them; they put his falsies at eye level, and Rose worries every time he draws her near that they might put an eye out. Maybe the eyepatch is a good idea, after all, since at least one of them is protected. 

A few people attempt to cut in, either to woo the Vitex Heiress or get the scoop on her mystery man, but Rose fends them off. This is Rose and the Doctor’s night, and nothing is going to ruin it. Even friendly mingling has no appeal; they’re here for one thing only.

And with that in mind, Rose glances around, trying to determine if they’d mingled long enough that they can slip away without seeming impolite. At parties like this, it’s good etiquette to wait for the host of the party to leave before following suit.

The crowd has thinned considerably since they’d arrived, and Rose decides she can’t wait any longer. She takes the Doctor’s hand and leads him back towards the entryway, where a table has been set up at the foot of the elaborate stairwell.

A servant selects a key tagged with Tyler, R. from a silver dish, and together head upstairs to private rooms. Rose’s skin is flushed in anticipation, and even the Doctor’s skin is human-warm beneath her touch. They find the room, and Rose gasps when she sees it.

The room is gorgeous, with a creamy shag carpet and a polished wooden four-post bed with gauzy curtains drawn back to reveal red satin sheets and a pile of pillows on a king-size mattress. On a nightstand is the copper censer she‘d requested for the pollen, which must be inhaled for maximum effectiveness. 

Rose heads towards the censer, and the Doctor digs the pollen from his cleavage, doing his best to look sexy as he did so but failing miserably. She supposes she should be glad that he hasn’t mastered the art of pulling things out of bras. Though she wonders if he practices when she’s away on missions.

Rose accepts the packet of pollen and pours the pink crystals into a wire mesh basket, which she then nestles in the censer. As Rose prepares the pollen, the Doctor hops on the bed, smiling gleefully as he bounces up and down, his phony assets jiggling realistically. He then flops onto his side, raised on one elbow, his ’come hither’ look slightly spoiled by the wig that hangs into his eyes. Rose finishes up and slides on to the bed next to him, and gives one of the fake breasts a poke. “Are you going to take those off, first?” she asks. 

He looks down, and frowns. “I… I can‘t remove them,” he says guiltily. “The adhesive I’m using is guaranteed to last for twelve hours. I just… I never really thought about it…” He smiles weakly. “It’s not like they’re real, so it shouldn’t be an issue, right?” 

“They’ll certainly make things interesting,” Rose says. Okay, so maybe this night isn’t going to quite live up to her fantasies. She can deal with it. Never let it be said that Rose Tyler isn’t open to new experiences. She wonders if this counts as a lesbian encounter.

When the pollen takes effect, it’s like being hit with a mallet. One moment, Rose is lightly running her fingers down the Doctor’s abdomen, toying with the laces of his top and the next, she finds herself tugging at them frantically.

He captures her wrists and gently pushes her hands away. “I’m not ready yet,” he says apologetically.

She almost lunges at him anyway, fingers curled into claws ready to rip the dress away. But she stops herself; she won’t act until the Doctor feels the effects. He frowns, clearly distressed by her need and his own inability to attend to it. He even sticks his nose into the censer and breathes deeply; this results in watering eyes and a sneezing fit so violent it knocks his wig askew. “Not doing that again,” he chokes. “Odd, though… there’s something about the smell that I wasn’t expecting…”

Rose, caught up in her desperate need, doesn‘t hear him. “Do you feel anything yet?” she moans.

His shoulders slump. “Nope. Guess my system’s just a little slow on the uptake.”

They wait. 

And wait. 

And then wait a little bit longer. 

By this point, Rose wants to lunge forward and pin the Doctor to the bed and rip off his dress, but she manages to hold back the urge. Barely. She hopes the sheets aren’t expensive, though, because she’s scrunching them so tightly in her hands that her nails have punctured them. 

“You said it would work!” she wails accusingly. She’s vaguely aware that desperation has made her sound whiny and petulant, but at the moment, she couldn’t care less. She needs him now, and his lack of cooperation is frustrating. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I honestly thought it would overcome my Time Lord DNA, or my hormones, or whatever it is that‘s causing this.” He looks so miserable, huddled at the end of the bed, that she wants to hold him and reassure him that it’s not his fault, except she’s certain that if she gets too close to him, she may hump his leg.

“At least I can still help you through this,” he says softly, leaning over and beginning to unlace her trousers, and Rose almost sobs with relief. 

Of course, that’s when the screaming begins. 

~oOo~ 

The screaming comes from the next room over, and as they listen through the door, it abruptly cuts off. “Think it’s someone getting lucky?” Rose asks, a little enviously. But the part of her brain that hasn’t been affected by the pollen insists that those hadn’t been screams of pleasure. And the absolute silence that follows adds to the feeling that something is very, very wrong.

The Doctor sticks his hand down the front of his dress. Thanks to the lingering effects of the pollen, Rose still finds herself rather turned on by this despite the potential danger. “Doctor, this isn’t the time -” she begins, when she realises she’s perilously close to jumping him. But then he cries “Aha!” and pulls out the sonic screwdriver.

“Call Pete,” he says, as he sets to work on the lock. Rose instinctively reaches for her pockets, then realises she doesn’t have any. Her mobile is in her bag, which she’d left with a servant downstairs

“Damn,” she mutters. “I don’t suppose you have your mobile?” 

Without pausing, the Doctor fishes his out of his cleavage and tosses it to her. 

“Is your cleavage bigger on the inside?” Rose asks incredulously, as she dials Pete’s number. 

“No pockets,” he says defensively, voice rising to Donna levels of shrillness. “I had to put my things somewhere!” 

To Rose’s surprise, Pete actually answers his mobile. She’d used the emergency code, true, but she hadn’t been sure he wouldn‘t ignore it anyway. Rose has trouble hearing Pete over her mum’s angry yelling, but she gets through to him just as the Doctor gets the door open. “We’d better have a situation, because if this is a false alarm, Mum is going to kill us.”

The Doctor sniffs. “Do you smell that? It’s like - ” He takes a step inside, then freezes. “Tell Pete we have a situation,” he says grimly. Rose peers around him; she doesn’t immediately see the problem, because the room is lit only by the moonlight, but then her eyes finally make sense of the dark shapes before them.

They stare in horror at the sight: a naked couple laying in a tangle of limbs, the creamy sheets beneath them dyed scarlet with blood. Rose can see glistening flesh and bone, and she tries not to let it distract her. Instead, she focuses on identifying the couple.

The Harrisons. Rose feels her gorge rise as she steps forward for a better look. But the Doctor’s hand closes on her arm, and he gestures with the sonic towards the floor, where a bloody trail leads away from the bed. He directs the light from the tip of the sonic along the trail until he found it.

It’s a plant. But it’s unlike any plant her mother had failed to keep alive; this is a monstrous thing, still coated in blood and tissue from its grisly birth. It slithers towards the open balcony door on its dexterous roots, and the moonlight illuminates jagged, fleshy teeth at the center of still-wet petals.

“Get it!” The Doctor cries, sprinting towards the plant as it loops a coil of roots over the balcony’s edge and hauls itself up. He raises the sonic, not quite sure what he’s going to do with it (did plants count as wood?) but it’s his only defense. 

He needn’t have bothered; the plant was more interested in escape. It dropped from the balcony to the garden below. The Doctor didn’t hesitate to follow, climbing over the rail and hanging from it a moment before dropping into a hedge. After a moment, Rose follows.

“Did you see where it went?” Rose asks, brushing twigs from her outfit. 

“This way,” the Doctor says, trotting off toward the center of the garden. Rose follows, but freezes when she hears movement in the hedge to her left.

“Doctor?” she calls, then notices he’s already stopped, and is staring at something ahead of him. Rose automatically reaches for a weapon, finding only the plastic sword that comes with her costume. Well… maybe she’ll luck out and the plant is allergic to plastic. She draws it, trying not to feel foolish as she holds it in front of herself defensively. Then she gets a good look at their foe, and her heart sinks.

It’s not a carnivorous plant. It’s much worse.

“Not so fast Doctor Smith, Miss Tyler.” Captain Jack Harkness is standing before them, gun trained on the Doctor. There’s a rustling off to their left, and then he’s joined by Martha Jones, who covers Rose with her own weapon. “The seeding of Level 5 planets is in violation of the Shadow Proclamation. You’re coming with us.”

~tbc~


	4. When Plants Attack

Four - When Plants Attack

 

“You’re arresting us? On whose authority?” the Doctor demands. Not Torchwood‘s, certainly - he’d checked to see if there was a Jack Harkness employed at any of the offices, without success.

Jack fishes something out of his pocket and holds out a badge for inspection. The Doctor examines it closely, Rose peering around his shoulder for a look.

“You’re an enforcer for the Shadow Proclamation,” the Doctor says quietly. Well, this complicates matters, since most of his arguments are based upon articles of the Proclamation.

The Doctor pulls himself to his full height, trying his best to look impressive. Which, he realises now, would be more effective if he’d gone for ’pirate’ rather than ’cross-dressed wench’. Maybe he should flash some cleavage? That seems to work for Rose. And Donna. And he knows his phony assets are very impressive. 

He wants to flirt his way out of an arrest. He blames this impulse entirely on his Donna-ness.

Before he can try, however, Jack pulls a set of hi-tech handcuffs from his pocket and closes them around the Doctor’s wrists. “Ow,” he mumbles as they automatically tighten around his wrists. Martha follows his lead and does the same with Rose, who doesn’t put up a fight. Yet. The Doctor can see the Tyler temper building behind those dark eyes.

“That’s right. Captain Jack Harkness, Shadow Proclamation’s Temporal Division,” Jack says coolly.

_Temporal Division?_ The Doctor wonders if it’s this universe’s version of the Time Agency. “That’s nice,” the Doctor says, attempting to push past, “but there’s a nasty little plant on the loose that’s already killed two people. I need to find it before - ”

Jack gestures to a dark shape laying several feet away, in the shadows of a hedge shaped like a buffalo. “It’s dead,” he says. 

The Doctor starts forward again, but Jack blocks his way, gun trained on the Doctor’s chest. “I’ve got them. Check them over, Dr. Jones,” Jack commands. Martha holsters her weapon and pulls out a handheld scanner, which she runs first over Rose, then the Doctor. “They’re clean,” she says, her eyes on the screen. “Though they have residue from the pollen on their skin.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. “Of course they are. Wouldn’t want to be infected by their own product, after all.”

“The pollen? You mean the ASP? I thought I smelled it in the Harrison’s room,” the Doctor says in realisation. “Wait… that came from the pollen?”

“The spores hidden in the pollen,” Martha corrects. “The spores you smuggled to this time period for distribution.”

“I’m going to kill Owen,” Rose seethes. “But… I don’t understand. Mum and Pete used that pollen! So have most of Torchwood! We should have been overrun by those things.”

The Doctor mulls this over. “It must be the Torchwood immunizations. They’re given to all employees and their families, right?” Rose nods. “And Owen at least has had enough sense to regulate the pollen use to just employees. The immunizations must kill the spores in the pollen.” 

“Ahem?” Jack clears his throat pointedly. “If you‘re going to further incriminate yourselves, you‘ll have to speak louder, so the recorder can pick it up. Or would you prefer I got my information the hard way?” There’s a hint of a leer on his face, an expression that should have seemed to be reassuringly Jack-ish, except that it doesn’t seem to be sex that’s on his mind.

Not good. This Jack seems to be more like his pre-Doctor con man counterpart, a man his Jack had regretted being.

“We had nothing to do with this,” the Doctor says through clenched teeth. “We’re Torchwood. Well, _she’s_ Torchwood; I’m a celebrity gossip columnist who does consultant work for Torchwood. Hell, we _used_ the pollen; do you think we would‘ve done that if we knew it would go all _Alien_ on us?”

“The _Alien_ movies don’t exist here,” Rose mutters.

“Stupid universe. The point is,” the Doctor says quickly, “our job is to _stop_ things like from terrorizing the population.”

“What makes you suspect us?” Rose demands. “This is the first time we’ve ever even used the pollen. What proof do you have?”

“The pollen isn‘t native to this planet or time period, and you’ve both traveled through time,” Jack says. “Martha scanned you, and both of you reek of artron radiation. You’ve traveled more than I have. You’re also both new to this time period; your forged pasts are good, but not that good.”

The Doctor and Rose exchange glances. “We used to travel in time, yes,” the Doctor says quietly. “But we’re currently stranded in this time period.”

“All the more reason to sell the pollen,” Jack says dismissively.

The Doctor rolls his eyes. This Jack seems to be unusually thick-headed; _his_ Jack wouldn’t have arrested them based on such weak evidence. “That’s all you have on us? Unless the Shadow Proclamation is drastically different than I remember, you’ll never be able to hold us on that alone. We can prove we picked up the pollen from another source,” the Doctor says calmly. “Let us call the director of Torchwood, and the chief medical officer who is in charge of the pollen distribution. It’ll save you the embarrassment of more people dying while you waste your time with two innocents.”

The Doctor must have hit a nerve with that last, because Jack appears to be thinking this over. He’s about to push the issue when something tugs at his temporal senses, which aren’t as keen as his Time Lord counterpart’s but are strong enough to pick up a temporal shift.

The Doctor‘s head snaps up, and he glances around wildly, trying to locate the source of the disturbance. Damn his dull senses! Also Donna‘s fault; stupid human genes. “Do you feel that?” Jack is about to reply, but then his Vortex manipulator warbles. He glances down at the readout and frowns. 

“Unauthorized temporal shift,” he says. “You felt that?” Jack eyes the Doctor strangely.

The Doctor smiles faintly. “I’m temporally sensitive. I’ve been feeling them all week - you lot, I suppose. You‘ve been following us for awhile.” The Doctor pauses to think. “There was one when we were in the ball room, and another shortly after. And you two weren’t there; I would have noticed.” His head suddenly jerks up. “It was near the Harrisons, now that I think about it,” he says. “Rose, did you see the man they were talking to?”

Rose thinks. “Not well,” she admits. “Just curly brown hair and a red military jacket.”

Though he doesn’t say anything, this clearly means something to Jack, who stiffens in response.

“Watch them,” he snaps to Martha. “If they move, you know what to do.” Martha nods and pulls her gun as Jack slips away.

“Wait! The handcuffs! Take them off and let us help!” The Doctor attempts to follow, but Martha blocks his way. The gun doesn’t waver in her hand, and he wonders just how skilled this Martha is with the weapon. 

“You can put the gun down, Martha Jones,” the Doctor says calmly, hands held up to remind her he‘s unarmed. “We’re not a threat. We‘re here to help.”

This only makes Martha more nervous. “How do you know my name?” she asks suspiciously.

Rose steps in hurriedly. “We’re Torchwood; we keep an eye out for promising new talent and you were marked for potential recruitment,” she lies smoothly. “Looks like we didn’t get to you quickly enough. You’ve heard of Torchwood, right?” Martha nods reluctantly. “So you know that our job is to _prevent_ incidents like this.”

“Please,” the Doctor says. “Let us help.” He nods towards the dead plant creature. “It’s Valentine’s Day, and you know what that means. Who knows how many people across the city are using infected pollen? There could be dozens of those things; more than you and Jack can handle. Let Rose make a call to Torchwood, and we can have armed troops to contain them.”

Martha glances towards where Jack had vanished into the night, then seems to come to a decision. “Right,” she says, lowering her gun. “One call. If I don‘t like what I hear, I am authorised to shoot,” she says warningly. The Doctor raises an eyebrow. He has the feeling she means it. Fortunately, he’s certain that her weapon is a stunner, since he can’t exactly answer questions when he’s dead. Wellll, mostly certain. Kind of. A little bit. He decides he doesn’t want to test that theory. 

The Doctor fishes the mobile from his cleavage, ignoring Martha’s startled look. Rose accepts the phone and quickly calls up Pete. They quickly exchange reports, then Rose snaps the phone shut. “They checked out the Harrisons’ room and found another one of those things in her ribcage, but it must have died when she was killed. There haven‘t been any other reported spawnings, but they‘re going to check every room. There‘ve been reports of a similar incident at another party; Torchwood dispatched a team to check it out. Pete - that is, Director Tyler - says he’ll be happy to come in for questioning, along with Dr. Harper, but asks that we wait until the situation is contained.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Jack’s voice says from behind them. He looks shaken, but ignores Martha’s concerned look. 

“Did you find anything?” Martha asks.

“No. Whoever it was is long gone. I got a reading on an energy signature, though.” He hesitates. “I think we’ll take you up on that offer to help,” he says to the Doctor. He pulls out something resembling a remote and points it at the Doctor’s cuffs. They immediately unlock, and the Doctor rubs his freed wrists pointedly. Rose isn’t quite so dramatic. “But you’re staying with me. And if you make one wrong move…” Jack holds up his weapon. His gun, the Doctor notices, most definitely isn’t a stunner.

“Right,” the Doctor says, trying to look as innocent as possible. “Lead on.”

~oOo~

Jack leads them to an open area of the garden, which at first glance looks empty. But Rose notices that a portion of one immaculate flower bed has been crush, as if beneath a great weight. Ah, a cloaked ship. “Don’t touch anything,” Jack warns as he taps the touch pad of his Vortex manipulator and a hatch appears. It hisses open, and Jack enters the ship, the Doctor and Rose behind them and Martha bringing up the rear. They’re in a small bay with half a dozen narrow alcoves lining the walls, which Rose assumes are meant to be cells with a force field barrier.

They head past what looks like a cramped crew quarters and end up in a small room lined with hi-tech equipment, furnished with a small table and a pair of chairs. Jack whispers something to Martha, who arches an eyebrow, then takes a seat at one of the computers and gets to work.

Jack beckons them to take a seat, and Rose obeys. The Doctor takes a moment to arrange his skirt before sitting, accidentally flashing a bit of leg as he does. Jack raises his eyebrow in appreciation, but quickly recovers.

Rose decides to take control of the situation. “What is going on here? What was that thing and what does it have to do with the pollen.”

Jack moves to a computer screen. At a touch, it comes to life, displaying a 3-D picture of a much larger version of the creature they’d seen earlier. “This is a Lybbonese Pygmy Hunter Plant,” Jack begins.

Rose splutters. “I’m sorry… did you say ‘pygmy‘?” There’s a humanoid figure for size comparison on the screen, and the plant is easily twice the height of the figure.

“Yeah,” Jack nods. “They’re a highly aggressive, carnivorous, parasitic plant native to the fourth planet of the Lybbon system. They have, as you’ve noticed, a rather nasty way of reproducing; they release spores in the wind, which, when inhaled, take root in the lungs and grow at a phenomenal rate before bursting out.”

Rose shudders. She’s suddenly glad that _Alien_ doesn’t exist here, because now that it’s all too real, she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to enjoy it again.

“In the 47th century, humans colonize the Lybbon system, and since the fourth planet was best suited for life… well, you can guess what happened next.”

The Doctor’s face darkens. “Genocide,” he murmurs.

Jack nods. “Several dozen spore clusters were preserved, so the colonists could claim to the Shadow Proclamation that they didn’t wipe out an entire species, and they’ve been kept in storage, completely dormant, for decades. Until, about a year ago, someone stole them. No one would have caught on, until one of our enforcers picked up a distress call from a space yacht. When we boarded the ship, the entire crew had been slaughtered, and there was a half-grown Hunter Plant in the dining hall. We managed to destroy it, but not before it killed two of my men, including my ex-partner.” At this, Martha looks a tad uneasy. “After looking through the logs, we discovered it had been purchased at a bazaar when it was much smaller, and broke free when it grew too large for its cage. From there, we were able to identify the species and that’s when we discovered the Lybbon Heritage Centre had been robbed, and that all thirty-seven spore clusters were missing.”

“How many spores are in a cluster?” the Doctor asks.

“Between ten and fifteen,” Jack says.

The Doctor grimaces. “That’s potentially over five hundred Hunter Plants.”

“Fortunately, only about half of those live long enough to germinate. Once in the atmosphere, they’re only viable for about fifteen minutes, and only one can grow within a host. We’ve recovered twelve spore clusters, and we think that nine more have been used previously. Which leaves sixteen spore clusters, distributed among packets of pollen. We learned that someone had been escaping the eyes of the Shadow Proclamation by traveling back in time and distributing the pollen on level five or lower worlds who have no contact with the Proclamation, and then selling the results.”

“Why hide it in pollen?” Rose wonders.

“It’s perfect for smuggling and distribution. It’s similar in composition to this particular pollen, so a scanner wouldn’t pick it up, and the pollen needs to be inhaled to work, making it the ideal delivery system. It’s clever, really, selling a sex pollen before Valentine’s Day; he wouldn’t have to wait around until the victims use the pollen, because he knows they’d save it for tonight, and he’d be able to pick up all of the plants in one night, minimizing the chance of being caught.”

“Why would anyone do this? Is someone trying to create a vicious army, or some sort of living weapon?” Rose wonders.

Jack’s lips curl in a snarl. “No. These things are _pets._ ”

Rose and the Doctor are shocked silent. “Pets?” the Doctor finally manages.

“Exotic pets,” Jack confirms. “Just like keeping a tiger or a bear as a pet, except with a horrifying breeding cycle. They’ve been banned from most planets, but there are people who will pay top dollar for one of these.”

“Jack,” Martha interrupts, “I ran the scan. I found ten spots around London that have had temporal activity matching his Vortex manipulator’s signature within the last week.”

“Damn,” Jack whispers. “I’d hoped my scans were wrong.”

“You know him, then? The man in the red coat?” the Doctor asks.

“He’s the man who picked up the distress signal of the space yacht, a man who I thought had been killed by the Hunter Plant. My ex-partner, Captain John Hart.”

~oOo~

Rose calls Pete again, and the news is grim. There had been two more reports of plant attacks, making it a total of four. She tells him the locations of Hart’s arrival and departure points, but they don’t have much hope of saving everyone. Most of those locations were in business districts, and there’s no way of knowing how many people at each point had purchased pollen packets, or where those people were spending the holidays. They needed to find Hart, fast, and use his records to track everyone down before its too late.

“I don’t feel right just sitting here and waiting,” Rose says.

The Doctor sighs and starts to run a hand through his hair until his wig starts to come off. “Me neither. Unfortunately, if we went to these sites, we’d just be clean-up crew.”

They’re still seated at the table, watching Martha at work. Jack had vanished to the cockpit, ready to fly at a moment‘s notice. The Doctor, who seems to have an allergy to silence, tries to strike up a conversation with Martha. “So,” he says, at his charming best, “the Shadow Proclamation. How’d you end up with them?”

Martha heaves a put-upon sigh. “Six months ago, there was an incident at Royal Hope Hospital, where I was an intern. Jack came with a Judoon squad to capture an alien criminal. Everyone else was panicking, but I… I was fascinated. And Jack admired the fact that I stayed level-headed through the whole thing. He came to my flat the next day and recruited me.” With that, she turns her back on them and resumes studying her computer screen - unnecessary, since it’s set to beep when it detects Hart’s temporal signature.

The Doctor sighs and attempts to rest his elbows on the table, though he’s having trouble working around his breasts. “I’m sorry, Rose,” he says sadly.

“Hmm?” She’d been checking her phone, which wasn’t getting any signal in the ship.

“This isn’t exactly the romantic evening we wanted, is it? I can’t perform even with the pollen’s help, people are dying, we’ve been arrested, my mascara is smearing, and I think my breasts are giving me a backache.” He slumps forward.

Rose pats his shoulder, ignoring Martha’s amused look. “Welcome to my world,” she says wryly.

The computer abruptly squawks, and Martha jolts into action, touching her earpiece to open the link to Jack even as she’s zeroing in on the location.

“Jack, we’ve got another incursion,” Martha says crisply. “It’s at a private residence, so it’s likely there’s no one left to call the authorities.” She relays the address, and they feel the ship come to life around them.

“Hang on to something,” Martha turns back to them. “Jack’s take-offs aren’t exactly smooth, and when he’s in a hurry, it tends to be a bumpy ride.”

The Doctor scoffs. “Bumpy? Please… Rose and I have ridden out worse in the TAR - ” He suddenly yelps and slips off the chair as the ship makes a hairpin, to land in a heap of skirts at Rose’s feet. “Don’t. Say. Anything,” he says through gritted teeth. “The dress is just slippery, is all.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she smiles sweetly.

~oOo~

The location is a large house outside of London. Jack lands the ship and engages the cloaking device, then heads back. “Any sign of activity?”

Martha, who had switched on the exterior cameras, shook her head. “Quiet as the grave,” she reported.

“This you is very grim, Martha Jones,” the Doctor complains.

Martha gives him a curious glance, but lets it pass. “Do we arm them?” she asks as she turns to a locker on their left.

“I won’t let them die on my watch. Give them a gun.”

“No,” the Doctor says flatly. “I don’t carry guns.”

“I do,” Rose snatches the offered weapon and checks it. ‘Stun’ and ‘kill’ settings, she notes automatically.

When they exit the ship, Rose has to admit that Martha’s description is disturbingly apt. This far from the city, there’s no noisy traffic, no too-loud radio or telly or conversation heard through thin walls, nor are there any sounds Rose would have associated with the country, such as barking dogs or wind through tree branches. Quiet as the grave, indeed. She suppresses a shudder.

“How do you want to do this? We should split up,” the Doctor suggests. “You two find Hart, and Rose and I will board his ship and hunt for evidence.”

“Do it,” Jack says, heading towards the house with Martha at his heels.

“Where is his ship?” Rose asks as they round a corner to the back yard.

“At a guess… right there,” the Doctor stops, staring. A cargo carrier, only slightly smaller than the house, is squatting in the back yard over a flattened tool shed. “He’s not even bothering to hide!” the Doctor says incredulously. 

“So he’s really confident that he won’t be caught,” Rose says, crossing the lawn towards the ship’s loading ramp, which is gaping open. “Not the first time I’ve caught someone because they were cocky.” Still, she draws her weapon before heading up the ramp, and pauses to listen before nodding for the Doctor to follow.

The Doctor, meanwhile, is coming to the conclusion that dresses and heels are rubbish for adventuring. Not only is the dress shortening his stride, but the hem keeps catching on everything, and now his heels keep getting caught in the grating! How had his companions done it?

The ramp leads into a spacious cargo bay, ominously filled with the sound of rustling vegetation. The lights at the far end are on, providing just enough light to see by. Rose is in the middle of the cargo bay, silently taking everything in. A wall of crates take up a quarter of the space; the rest is made up of sturdy-looking cages lining the hull. There are at least two dozen of the plant creatures filling the cages. Most of them are curled in on themselves, dormant, but a handful are lunging at the iron bars, desperate to get at the meat beyond their reach.

“He’s been busy,” Rose says quietly. She’s studying one of the plants in its cage, taking in the deep violet petals, which are serrated, framing a dark, fleshy maw of uneven teeth. It’s set on a thick, supple stem lined with whip-like vines that widens at the base and ends in a system of roots that remind Rose of spider legs or tentacles. “Why would anyone want these things as pets?”

The Doctor takes her arm, intending to lead her out. “Why would anyone want a tiger? Or alligator? Humans are fascinated by dangerous creatures, and they can be a symbol of status. Come on; we need to search the rest of the ship and find Hart’s records.”

“No, I think not,” a voice says mildly.

The Doctor and Rose freeze as a shadow detaches itself from behind one of the cages. It’s Captain John Hart, holding what looks like a long cattle prod. “Well, well, well… isn’t this convenient? My little pets prefer their meat fresh, and you’ve just saved me a lot of time.”

Before Rose can bring up her gun to fire, Hart lunges forward and jabs her in the stomach with the prod. It sparks, and Rose cries out and crumples to the floor. The Doctor hesitates, torn between checking Rose and tackling Hart, and in his split-second of indecision, Hart moves in and uses the prod on him. He collapses before he can utter a sound.

~oOo~

The Doctor recovers first, groaning as he pushes himself off a lumpy sack of bedding he doesn’t remember falling asleep on. He opens his eyes, which is no help because it’s pitch black. Where is he? He wracks his brain as he tries to remember the last few hours. Valentine’s Day, matching pirate and wench costumes, alien sex pollen, mutual frustration… Wait, the pollen!

He jerks upright, pushing off the uncomfortable bedding, which moans in protest.

Ah. _Rose_. Not a lumpy pillow, then.

His eyes have adjusted enough that he can make out the shadowy cages holding the Hunter Plants. There’s a vibration running through the grating beneath the hands, making him grimace. Hart had lifted off, and who knew where, or even when, they were now?

Most of the plants are quiet; perhaps they close up during the night, like flowers. But the Doctor hears a soft noise, and he instinctively freezes. There’s something active in the bay, something besides he and Rose. He really, really hopes it’s Captain Hart. The sound isn’t coming from one of the cages. It seems to originate from the stack of crates somewhere behind them.

“Doctor? Wha - ?” Rose asks groggily.

“Shush, Rose, listen…” Rose obeys, and over the hum of the ship’s engines, they hear a rasping noise as something pulls itself along the grating. Toward them.

_Oh, no…_

There’s a Hunter Plant loose in the cargo bay.

~tbc~


	5. Jungle Love

Five - Jungle Love

 

Bad news: There’s a vicious, carnivorous plant loose in the darkened cargo bay where Rose and the Doctor are prisoner.

Good news: Only one of them seems to be loose.

Bad news: One of them is more than enough to rip the two of them to shreds.

Good news: No… Rose can’t come up with anything else. They’re pretty much screwed.

Typical Torchwood mission, really, though she’s usually better armed. 

The Doctor leans in, lips nearly brushing her ear. “Stay low and follow me.” She can barely see him, but she can hear the rustle of his skirt and follows the sound, crawling on her belly and expecting at any moment to feel the Hunter Plant’s jaws close around her.

Her shoulder brushes the sharp corner of a crate and she suppresses a yelp as it tears through the flimsy cloth of her shirt and into her skin. She really hopes these things can’t smell blood… She grits her teeth and continues onward. Something suddenly grabs her shoulder, and she nearly jumps out of her skin at the contact.

The Doctor pulls Rose to a sitting position beside him, behind a large crate that smells like rotten meat. “There’s a hatch in the ceiling at the far end,” he whispers into her ear. “I’ll distract the plant, and you make a run for it; I‘ll be right behind you. Take the sonic - Gah!” he cries as he’s suddenly hauled away from her. The sonic screwdriver topples to the grating with a clatter.

Rose, still groggy from being shocked, is slow to react. She expects at any moment to hear the Doctor being ripped apart limb by limb, and she’s helpless to do anything. And then she hears an indignant voice yell, “Oi, stop it! That tickles!” She slowly raises her head above the crate, activates the screwdriver so she can use it as a torch, and stares at the sight before her.

The Hunter Plant has several vines wrapped around the Doctor and is pulling him close in what almost looks like an embrace. “Oh, this is awkward,” he says as it rubs its petal-lined ‘head’ against the Doctor’s chest.

“Um… Rose? I don’t want to alarm you, but I think the ASP is finally kicking in, just not how I was expecting.” 

“What?!” Now is definitely not the time for _that_ , and Rose curses his wonky biology. 

“It’s just… the flower seems to like me. Really, really _like_ me. I think it’s reacting to the pollen.”

_What?_ Rose thinks, then _Ohh…_ “You mean… it wants to…” She can’t help it; she bursts out laughing. “This could only happen to you!” she chokes.

“Ew, Rose, it’s a _flower!_ It’s not interested in _that!_ ” He hesitates. “I don’t think, anyway. It’s more likely to twine its vines around me… like so… and squeeze… much like it’s… doing now… and then… it might pull my face to… its mouth and… ew, squirt pollen into my face… Oh, this _sucks_ ,” he gasps. 

Focused entirely on the Doctor, the plant doesn’t react as Rose slowly approaches.

“So…” Rose smirks, “which of you is the female in this arrangement?”

The Doctor splutters, then sneezes. “Just get me out!” he chokes.

Rose hunts around for something to use to pry the vines loose. After a moment, she finds one of the prods on a rack near one of the cages and sends a jolt through a clump of vines. The plant hisses, then loosens its grip enough for the Doctor to shift and give her enough room to work on the largest vine. The Doctor wriggles all the while, making it impossible for the plant to regain its constricting grip, and after a few minutes, the Doctor is able to wiggle free.

“Come on, lets - ” Rose begins. The Hunter Plant suddenly snaps out of whatever stupor the ASP had caused and lunges forward, closing its teeth around the prod. It snaps in half, the ends sparking briefly and causing the plant to reel back.

“Um… I think you made it angry, Rose,” the Doctor says, backing away, in the direction of the hatch.

“It’s just been cockblocked by the other woman, Doctor!” Sooo much wrong with that statement, Rose thinks. “How do you think it’s going to feel?” Probably much the way she’s been feeling all evening. Great; she’s empathising with a plant. “Now, shut up and run!”

She whirls and sprints towards the ladder set beneath a small circular hatch. Strangely, the Doctor isn’t surging ahead of her as he usually does when they’re running, and she risks a glance back. He’s running, but he seems to be having some difficulty with his boots on the grated floor. The plant is right behind him. He sees her concern and gives her an ‘everything’s all right’ smile. She closes the distance to the ladder, the Doctor following gamely. 

She slows when she hears the Doctor’s footsteps falter, and she turns, afraid that he’d stumbled and fallen. But he seems to be taunting the plant to buy her time, and when he notices she isn’t up the ladder yet, he yells, “Climb!”

Rose doesn’t need to be told twice. She scrambles up the ladder and immediately sets to work on the lock. She tries to shut out the sounds of the fleshy roots scraping against the metal grating, the rustle of those serrated petals, and the clacking of wooden teeth. She focuses instead on the screwdriver’s steady warble and the wonderful sound of the Doctor’s boots as he climbs up the ladder behind her.

The hatch hisses and opens, and Rose scrambles through, scraping her shoulder and tearing her costume in her desperation to get to safety. Once she’s clear, she turns and watches the Doctor, who is one rung away from the hatch’s rim.

And then the Hunter Plant’s snaggle-toothed maw closes on the tip of the Doctor’s foot.

He yowls, and his grip slips. Rose lunges forward and grabs his hand, throwing her weight back to keep him from sliding down further. The Doctor kicks at the plant with his free foot, and manages to land a blow on its mouth. A tooth snaps, and the plant releases him. With Rose’s help he climbs the rest of the way up and through the hatch. The moment his boots clear the rim, she slaps the hatch control and it snaps shut.

Rose slumps against the hull, sliding down it to sit on the metal grating until her heart stops feeling like it’s going to explode out of her chest. She turns to the Doctor, who is sitting beside her. “Chased by a horny, jealous plant. That’s a new one on me,” she says, tone light. When the Doctor doesn’t respond, she turns to him.

The Doctor is staring at the damaged boot as though he’s just been betrayed by his best friend. He looks like he’s in shock.

“Doctor!” she says sharply, trying to snap him out of it. “It’s just a boot! You can replace it!”

“s’not the boot,” he says dully. He shifts his leg so she can get a better look, and she gasps in horror at the bloody mess of his foot. “My toe… I liked that toe…

Oh, God… There’s a lot of blood, and it looks as if his little toe and the tip of the toe next to it are gone completely. “We need to bandage that. Can you remove the boot?” The Doctor doesn’t react, so she eases it off for him. She then removes her sash, which isn’t exactly clean but it’s better than the alternative, and carefully binds his foot. All the while he watches, unblinking.

“Come on, Doctor, we need to get out of here. We need to get medical help.” She snaps her fingers in front of his face, but his only response is a slow blink. 

She suddenly realises that this is his first time his hybrid body has had a serious injury, and he’s clearly not taking this brush with his own mortality well. “Doctor?” She touches his cheek tenderly. “Come back to me,” she whispers.

“Can’t,” he mumbles. “Dying.”

“No you aren’t,” she says, keeping her voice very calm. “You’re hurt, but you’ll be fine once we get out of here.”

“This wouldn’t have happened to the other me,” he says pitifully.

“Not true. Remember the Sycorax? Getting your hand cut off?” She takes his right hand and holds it in hers. “Turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He’s starting to be more responsive, because his brow furrows at this statement. “Not gonna get another me,” he points out.

Two of him. Now there’s a thought. She tries to imagine putting up with two hyperactive genius trouble-magnets, one of which was grown from a toe. Who both want to sleep with her… Rose still has enough pollen in her system to spend longer thinking about that than is probably good for her.

“Um, Rose?” The Doctor sounds fully alert now, and slightly frantic. She wonders how long he‘s been calling to her. “I hate to interrupt what must be some really dirty thoughts, judging from the expression on your face - though I have no idea why my pain is such a turn-on; I’m a bit worried about you - but we’re about to have a visitor.”

On cue, there’s a swirl of blue, and a dark shape steps out.

“Hello, ladies!” Jack beams. “Miss me?”

“Jack!” She’d spring to her feet and hug him, but the Doctor’s hand is still curled around hers. “Where’s Martha?”

“We found a survivor. Martha’s tending to her until help arrives.”

“Come on, Doctor.” Rose gets to her feet and attempts to pull the Doctor up after her. “We need to get out of here.

“What’s wrong with him?” Jack asks, dismayed.

“One of the plants bit his foot,” Rose explains as she hauls the Doctor to his feet. He winces and immediately shifts his weight onto his whole left foot. He braces himself against the hull and takes a limping step, hissing at the pain when he brings his right foot down.

“I could take you out of here,” Jack begins reluctantly.

“No,” the Doctor says faintly. “We need to stop Hart. I’ll be all right. What do you want to do?”

“I need to seize the ship.” Jack’s voice is curiously flat, and Rose and the Doctor exchange uneasy glances. “It needs to be intact if I want to prove to the Shadow Proclamation that he’s responsible. So I’m going to confront him.” He turns on his heel and strides down the narrow corridor, presumably towards the cockpit.

“Is it me, or does it sound like he’s about to do something desperate and stupid?” Rose whispers.

“Yup.” The Doctor takes one halting step and grimaces.,

“Here, lean on me,” Rose offers her shoulder, and he gratefully accepts. She tries not to notice the trail of blood they’re leaving as they slowly follow Jack.

Jack has a big lead on them, which is why they’re unable to help when Hart suddenly steps out of a side passage, pushes him against a wall and kisses him. Jack responds at first, then suddenly stiffens and slips down Hart’s body to the ground. 

“New lip gloss,” Hart explains. “Don’t worry… it’s mildly paralytic, but you’re in no danger. You just won’t be able to stop me from doing this.” Hart brings his booted foot down on Jack’s Vortex manipulator. There’s a sickening crunch and a squeal of electronic feedback as the screen goes dark. Jack can only stare at it dumbly.

“And as for you two,” Hart says, turning towards the Doctor and Rose, “I wouldn’t try to come any closer. See that?” He points at a small sphere by the Doctor’s foot. “Portable force field cell. Activated as soon as you two got too close. I‘d stay right where you are unless you want another nasty shock.”

Damn, he’s right; Rose can see a faintly bluish distortion surrounding her and the Doctor. “Sonic?” she asks, handing it to him.

“Dampening field,” Hart says, smirking. The Doctor makes a cursory effort anyway, which yields no results. Satisfied they’re not going to escape any time soon, Hart turns back to Jack.

“Took you long enough to take the bait,” Hart says, his tone disappointed. “You’re getting old. And soft. The old Jack wouldn’t have stopped to help that woman if there was a chance to stop me from getting away.”

“Bait?” Jack whispers. “You… wanted me to find you?”

“Of course. Much easier to kill you that way.”

Jack makes an inarticulate sound that manages to convey both his rage and bewilderment.

“Oh, Jack…” Hart crouches down and lovingly strokes Jack’s hair. “Poor, stupid Jack… Don’t go back to the Proclamation. Someone wants you dead, and the Proclamation has agreed to look the other way. But I can’t do it, Jack. We have so much history together.” He leans forward and kisses Jack’s forehead. Jack glowers.

“All those people… dead because of you!”

“Unfortunate, yes. I like to be more hands-on with my killing… and I prefer that my victims _deserve_ it.” He pulls back the sleeve of his coat, exposing his Vortex manipulator. “Sadly, as long as I wear this, I really don’t have much of a say in my life.”

Rose leans forward for a better look, eyes widening when she realises the band is fused to his skin, and has been modified so it no longer looks like Jack’s. “What is that?” she asks.

“A bomb.” The Doctor’s voice is grim. “One wired into the manipulator’s temporal controls. Judging from the way time is warping around it, when it detonates it’ll cause a localized temporal distortion. We used similar devices, in the War,” he says tonelessly.

Hart’s expression becomes one of respect. “You’re far more clever than you look,” he says. “Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t die after all. Yes… if this is detonated, I’ll be caught in a time anomaly. Parts of me will age, other parts will rejuvenate… It will be an excruciating way to die… assuming he lets me.”

“He who?” Jack demands.

“Of course, I can’t go back if you’re still alive,” Hart continues. “That’s why I had to destroy your manipulator. And why I’m going to blow up your ship. He’ll think you’re dead and leave you be. Don‘t worry about the Hunter Plants, either; I‘ve used up all of the spores, and this was my last stop tonight.”

Hart removes the electric prod from his belt. “If anyone asks, I killed you,” he says cheerfully, touches the end to Jack‘s shoulder. Jack spasms, then passes out. “And now for you two,” Hart says, turning to Rose and the Doctor. He touches a button on his wrist strap, and the force field snaps off. Once again, he’s too fast for Rose to avoid, and he rams the prod into her chest.

“Not again,” Rose moans as the electricity courses through her and everything goes dark.

~oOo~

When they wake up, they’re in a heap on the porch of the last victim’s home, and there’s a smouldering wreck where Jack’s ship had been. Martha is beside them, and she cries out in relief when Jack opens his eyes.

“What happened?” Martha demands.

“He stranded us… We’re stuck here. At least it’s your time period.”

Rose groans, finding it harder to clear her head the second time around. “Doctor?” she mumbles.

“Check them,” Jack continues. “They’ve both been shocked twice, and he’s injured.”

The Doctor is slumped against the railing, eyes closed and face pale. Martha checks him over, first with the scanner and then using her own medical skills. Her brow furrows. “It’s hard to say, since he’s only part human, but his vitals are good. He’s suffering from blood loss, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he picked up an infection walking around like that, but he’s doing surprisingly well.” She gave Rose a reassuring smile. “He’ll be all right.” She steps over to Rose and starts checking her over, resuming her conversation with Jack as she carries out her examination.

“But why would he do that? Why not just kill us?” Martha wonders.

“He tried to kill _us_ ,” Rose says sullenly.

“He doesn’t know you. John and I… have a history,” Jack admits. Somehow, Rose isn’t surprised. “We were lovers, and I guess he still has feelings for me.” Left unspoken is the fact that he obviously still has feelings for John, as well.

“And I thought my relationship was messed up,” Rose mutters.

They can hear sirens in the distance, the ambulance coming for the survivor. Rose hopes Torchwood is with them, because there’s no way they can take the Doctor to a regular hospital.

“So, what are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know. I won’t be going back,” Jack says forlornly. “Not because of this,” he holds up his wrist, showing the damaged Vortex manipulator, “but because of him. He set us up to die, and he can’t have been acting alone. Someone at the Proclamation wants me out of the way. ” He smiles faintly. “I make more money for one night of stripping than I did in a week with the Proclamation, anyway.”

“So, you’re staying here?” Rose asks.

He nods. “I’ll take Martha home, and then…” Jack shrugs. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Rose takes his hand. “Good luck, Jack. If you ever want a job at Torchwood, I could find a place for you.”

“Thanks, but I’ve lost my taste for the alien-hunting business. Maybe someday…” he flashes her that thousand-watt grin. “Come on, Martha.”

Martha shakes her head. “I’d like to stay with him until help comes,” she says. “I can find my own way home.” Her voice is flat. Rose can relate; she knew what it was like to be free to travel time and space, only to have it all snatched away from her.

As the ambulance pulls into the drive, a Torchwood SUV right behind it, Jack disappears into the night.

~oOo~

“You still have breasts,” are Rose’s first words when she enters the Doctor‘s room. She‘s not sure why they‘re the first thing she notices; perhaps it‘s because he‘s so thin that he seems to sink into the Torchwood medical gurney, making them all the more obvious. Or maybe it’s because she’s not sure how to talk to this frail, injured version of her beloved. The Doctor’s eyes slowly open. They’re a little foggy from the pain medication, but he’s aware enough to smile when he recognises her.

His eyes roll downward, to examine the large peaks visible beneath his hospital gown. “So it would seem. I think I’ve successfully field tested this adhesive,” he says thickly.

“How are you feeling?”

“Not bad. They gave me the _good_ stuff.” He gives her a loopy grin. “So, what’s the damage? No one’s really explained it to me while I was coherent enough to understand.”

“You lost the little toe, and part of the fourth. The fourth and middle toes are broken. Your foot will be in a cast for a bit, but the way you heal, you’ll be out of it in no time. You can come home tonight,” she smiles warmly. 

“You mean… you still want me?” he asks.

“What?” She blinks in bewilderment. Is he actually _worried_ she won’t want him now that he’s hurt? She hopes it just the drugs. “Honestly, you’re such a baby sometimes! You have one less _heart_ than the Doctor and I still love you – why would one less _toe_ change my mind?” She brushes her hand through his hair, pushing a strand out of his eyes. “Don’t worry, love,” she whispers. “I’ll take care of you.”

He smiles weakly. “That’s not what I mean… This is just one more reminder that I’m not him. That I’m… _mortal_. That I can die, _really_ die.”

“So can I. So can my family, my friends, my coworkers… everyone, really.” She leans over and kisses his forehead. “Welcome to humanity.” There will be more discussions about this, she knows. More uncertainty, more angst, as he adjusts to this first real brush with his mortality.

That should wait until he’s able to think more clearly. She decides to distract him with her news. “The board suspended Owen for a month for purchasing and distributing dangerous substances.” Rose rolls her eyes. “Never mind that the board knew about the ASP and were his biggest customers. He’s also getting demoted, which means there’ll be no living with him when he returns.” She shudders theatrically. “Good news is, we hired a replacement with just as much alien experience and a much better bedside manner.” She grins widely, her eyes dancing. “She was working on you, in fact. Dr. Martha Jones, I think is her name.”

The Doctor brightens for a moment, then wilts. “She didn’t seem to like me much,” he sighs.

“To be fair, she thought you were trying to breed an evil army of flesh-eating flowers. I wouldn’t like you, either.” She pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry; you’re actually very charming when you’re unconscious. I’m sure you won her over.”

He sighs. “Hope so. She might have new insight into my hormonal problems,” he muses. “Speaking of which… I’m sorry last night didn’t go so well.”

“It wouldn’t be a proper night out with you if things went well,” Rose points out dryly. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll be fine. Sooner or later, your hormones will settle, and we’ll go back to me having to fight you off every night when you’re feeling frisky and I’m too tired.”

Now he‘s grinning broadly. “I am starting to feel a little needy,” he purrs. 

“Not until you’re a little better,” she scolds him, but her heart flutters at the thought.

He pouts for a moment, then puts on a more serious expression. “And what about Jack? Any sign of him?”

Rose shakes her head. “No, but you know Jack. He’ll find a way to survive. I’m sure we haven’t seen the last of him.”

~oOo~

A few days later, the Doctor hobbles into the _Star_ ’s offices on crutches, Donna trailing behind him with his bag in hand. He receives a few curious glances, but is left alone for the most part. He hadn’t like the cover story Rose had come up with that a car had backed over his foot (as if he’d do something so stupid as to stand that close to a moving vehicle!) but it drew less attention than ‘attacked by a horny carnivorous plant.’

He heads to his editor’s office, feeling more than a little nervous. Most of his work is done on a computer, but there is some legwork involved. What if he can’t maintain his workload? What if they replace him?

Greg looks a little startled to see him. “I wasn’t expecting you back until next week,” he says.

The Doctor shrugs. “Can’t keep a good journalist down,” he says, dropping into the seat in front of Greg’s desk. Donna hovers behind him, ready to hand the Doctor whatever he needs. He wishes he’d known sooner that being injured was the key to turning Donna into the perfect personal assistant.

Then he dismisses the thought. A mouthy, opinionated Donna is a much better friend.

“Besides,” the Doctor grins, “I just wanted to remind everyone that I still work here. It takes more than a plant,” Donna nudges him from behind, “er, a car, to get rid of me.”

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that,” Greg says, suddenly all business. “We’ve made some changes while you were out.” He pauses significantly, and the Doctor pales.

“Changes? I was just… I mean… you didn’t _really_ replace me, did you?” he squeaks.

Greg takes pity on him. “Your celebrity column is secure. However, we found another writer for the homosexual life column, one who was ready to take over right away. I hope you don’t mind.” 

“Not at all,” the Doctor says, grinning with relief. No more clubbing! “It just… wasn’t my thing.” Now he just has to worry about the rest of his workload. Fortunately, he can interview celebrities while seated. “So, what’s the new writer like?”

“He hasn’t had much experience as a writer, but he’s certainly knowledgeable in other matters. About half our staff - women and men alike - have already offered to help him with editing.”

_Oh, now that isn’t fair_ , the Doctor thinks. He’d had to ask Rose to help him before he was finally offered his pick of assistants that had already been rejected by the rest of the staff. “He’s here now, if you’d like to meet him,” Greg continues cheerfully. “We were about to head out to lunch and discuss the column.” He opens his office door and gestures for someone to come inside. The new hire is tall, handsome, and utterly familiar.

“You have got to be kidding me,” the Doctor and Donna say in unison.

Of course, his replacement is Captain Jack Harkness. 

~fin~ 

Shoot, Martha didn’t do as much as I would’ve liked. I’ll try to use her more in the future. And I borrowed more from Torchwood than I was planning when it came to John Hart. And yeah, I know, lots of unanswered questions here. Sorry.

Also, before anyone thinks the Doctor’s over-reacting with his injury, not long after I plotted this part out, someone I know actually suffered a similar injury under rather horrifying circumstances. It’s been months, and he’s still on crutches and needs pain killers. I’d had no idea it could be such a traumatic thing and I would rather not have found out this way. 

Much to my annoyance, despite the fact that I have several serious fics clamoring for my attention, I have more ideas for this series and they’re making it hard to focus on anything else. The next planned chaptered story is going to use the dreaded baby!fic cliché. *shudders* I also have a one shot ‘Rose had Bad Wolf powers cliché’ story planned for right after this


End file.
